


Never A Dream to Compare

by SugarMagic



Series: This Heart of Mine Beat Loud and Fast [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Time, Good Omens Kink Meme, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Switching, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 09:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25468624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarMagic/pseuds/SugarMagic
Summary: After confessing their long-denied love to one another, Aziraphale and Crowley return to the bookshop to do a little more than kiss.(May be read as a stand-alone)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: This Heart of Mine Beat Loud and Fast [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1844806
Comments: 5
Kudos: 106
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	Never A Dream to Compare

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for the following kink meme prompt: 
> 
> "A/C, vaginal fingering
> 
> I hope this counts! If not, please feel free to delete ‘cause I’m not sure if it’s really a kink (not trying to kinkshame, I legitimately have no clue).
> 
> \+ praise kink  
> ++ both of them take turns getting fingered
> 
> I don’t mind which one of them has the vulva, or how they present. Just give me one or both of them absolutely falling apart." 
> 
> Special thanks to Skip for beta reading, and to [Langerhan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Langerhan/pseuds/Langerhan) for coming up with the positions these two enjoy. And thank you for reading!

The door isn’t even latched before Aziraphale has a fist around Crowley’s neck scarf and is pulling him back down to kiss him again. Not being the one to start it, being the one to be kissed does something to Crowley, and he’s got the angel’s back pressed to the door before he knows what he’s doing. He’s crowding him, he knows it, but he’s helpless to do anything about it, so he deepens the kiss they’re sharing instead, slides his tongue in to glide against the angel’s, whatever it takes to hear the little moans Aziraphale has begun to voice from the back of his throat. 

He realizes with a little shiver that they’ve jumped from their first tentative kiss not even half an hour ago to just plain making out like a couple of horny teenagers right there up against Aziraphale’s front door. When Aziraphale releases his scarf and cups the side of his face instead, he sees stars all over again behind his squeezed-shut eyes. 

And he was worried about going fast before. Aziraphale isn’t complaining, though, or stopping him, or telling him to slow down. If anything, it’s Aziraphale whose hands are scrambling wildly at his back, and Crowley that senses the speed of things. He slides his hands to Aziraphale’s hips, as Aziraphale curls a hand into his hair. To steady himself, maybe, if he’s feeling half as affected as Crowley is. 

He can feel the essence of Aziraphale’s kisses metamorphosing between the slide of their tongues. The electric current of Aziraphale’s need is a sensation as tactile as the fist tugging at his hair. Lust is blossoming in Aziraphale like morning flowers, opening up to the sun for the first time to soak in the light. Aziraphale _wants_ ; wants in a sudden rush that spikes with a press of Crowley’s body here and a swirl of his tongue there. Aziraphale wants this, wants Crowley in unconfessed impulses long forbidden, and Crowley is able to feel it all. Desires are pouring forth from him, reams of fantasies now at last officiated by their kisses. Neither of them has any reason to pretend otherwise anymore. 

Crowley chases those upticks of lust, a hot shudder going through him. He’s starting to crave those pulses of heat, to burn for them, and his mind is going hazy with all the blissful need, both his and his angel’s. The most demonic parts of his soul are gobbling it up with greed. His corporation is answering the situation without any conscious effort on his part: He’s manifesting something in his pants, inarticulate and undefined. It’s a pleasure center and little more than that, the vague consequence of giving form to his desire without actually meaning to. Inspiration flashes through his lust-addled head, visions and intentions of Aziraphale coming on his fingers, moaning into his mouth, shaking in his arms, and the indistinct space throbs. He presses the mound between his legs against the angel’s plush hips on a reflex, some needy instinct that comes from being in love in a physical body and being loved in return. It’s juvenile and desperate but he doesn’t know what else can be expected when they’re finally able to touch one another at last.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasps, breaking their kiss to pant at his collar bone. Crowley turns his face into Aziraphale’s curls and dares to bring his hands to the old-fashioned buckle of Aziraphale’s belt, hoping. He waits there, heart thundering, giving the angel time to twist away or take ahold of his wrists or just plain say “No,” but instead he feels another wave of lust rise and cusp. Crowley leans back to watch Aziraphale close his eyes and part his pink lips. His wanton love. 

He swoops back in to suckle the angel’s lower lip between his teeth, a distraction to buy himself time while he jerks the buckle open. He doesn’t have the patience to draw the belt from loops. Instead he lets it hang open and goes for his flies, yanking it down and then thumbing the button open one-handed. He blesses at what he finds underneath: Not the bulge of an erection barely contained by a sensible pair of briefs, but another series of buttons Crowley recognizes from the long underwear that was popular some one-hundred-ten years ago. 

The hiss that rattles from deep in his glottis is frankly unpreventable.

Because he can’t shake the feeling that he’s on the clock here. If he doesn’t hurry, Aziraphale is going to think better of it all, take back his love declarations and refute Crowley’s. He’ll zip his pants back up and send Crowley on his way to wank himself off until he passes out in a pathetic mire of longing. Forget his worries over speed earlier - He doesn’t have a spare moment to waste. 

But Aziraphale is before him, trousers open, and receptive, if the sexual energy all but crackling in the air says anything at all. Manicured fingernails are biting into the nape of his neck and Aziraphale is puffing breaths through his nose against Crowley’s cheekbones. He can smell how much his angel wants him, can taste on his tongue how badly he needs Crowley to give him what they’ve been denying each other for thousands of years. 

Alright. He needs to calm down. He needs to get his head on right and trust this. A pair of old fashioned long underwear can’t undo their 6,000-year courtship, and he knows that in his heart. This little cotton barrier won’t dare to stop him, not after everything they’ve hurtled towards tonight, and all of the other nights before it. 

He plunges his hand into Aziraphale’s open trousers all at once before doubt can slow him. Aziraphale gasps whole-lungedly and clings to Crowley’s shoulders hard enough to leave thumbprint bruises on his skin. Crowley’s aim is to rub the angel’s mons over the fabric in slow little tempting circles, to coax some effort out of Aziraphale if he can. Whatever type the angel likes is fine so long as Crowley can use it to give him pleasure. He’s expecting the neutral blank shape of effortlessness on Aziraphale’s body, but his fingers find a soft valley that gives under his insistent press. It’s hot and a little damp through the fabric, and Crowley realizes that he won’t need to do any coaxing after all. 

His angel is wearing a cunt. Aziraphale, Principality, Angel of the Eastern Gate, has readied for himself a sweet little quim. Crowley snaps his fingers and his own effort explicates into a more refined match: pliant labia framing a tight cunt with a big clit, topped with a wild red bush, immediately soaking from the anticipation alone. It was an afterthought, nothing noteworthy when Aziraphale’s own cunt is unexplored, untouched by Crowley’s searching fingers, not yet twitching with orgasm like it should be. The status of things is frankly offensive to Crowley and he won’t stand for it. 

“Beloved,” Aziraphale tries. “Crowley. Please. Please.” The words aren’t said so much as breathed into Crowley’s neck. He nods mutely, struck wordless by the reverence Aziraphale puts into his name. He looks at the line of buttons again and considers, very seriously, simply grabbing each half of the garment and ripping it in two. But Aziraphale would fuss over that, and Crowley has no interest in distracting the angel from his own breathy need. Instead, he takes the buttons one by one. He tries to give patience to the slow pace of undoing them naturally, patience to his own clumsy, shaking hands. 

A little alabaster diamond of skin is revealed between the gap left by the parted buttons, and now Crowley has a critical decision to make: Is he going to take this up or down? His fingers reach for the top button, then hesitate half way and dart downwards instead. He curses his hands for making him look like an idiot and tries to undo the buttons at twice the speed.

“Oh,” Aziraphale gasps as each inch of skin is exposed. “Oh, dear…” he murmurs, then falls silent for a moment, watching Crowley at his buttons, steading himself on Crowley’s shoulders. “My love,” he begins, “I do hope you won’t think me a wanton hussy for what I am about to do…” And before Crowley has time to tease him for plucking his words from the early 1900s, or to flush hot at being called “My love,” everything that Aziraphale is wearing from his bow-tie to his balmorals simultaneously vanishes from their plane of existence.

Crowley’s mouth drops open in shock, and then twists into a possessive snarl. He shoves himself impossibly closer, pinning Aziraphale’s nude body tighter against the door. They’re chest against bare chest, and he’s vaguely aware that one of his bony knees is prying apart creamy angelic thighs. Crowley can’t help himself. Aziraphale is too beautiful, too divine, even in this corporation designed to conceal the bulk of his grace. His body is hairless and abundant, and Crowley loses himself for a moment in running hands over the generous folds of him. He is a feast of an angel. His body is hot under Crowley’s hands, and he’s arching into the touches like he can’t bear to be without them. Crowley has no response but to hoist up one of his thick legs and pin it there. Then he’s dropping his gaze to get himself an eyeful. 

Aziraphale’s outer lips are fat with desire, unconcealed from Crowley’s blatant stare. He’s like a fucking Renaissance painting: Demurring and innocent if not for the sex flush pinkening him. The look of him is teaching Crowley a thing or two about temptation right there on the spot. He lets go of Aziraphale’s leg, but the angel curls it around his waist, pressing his bare cunt to the fly piece of Crowley’s too-tight jeans. He has to kiss him again, has to recapture his lips and swallow the angel’s moan, or he’s not going to keep it together well enough to avoid stopping time and trying his wild best to keep this moment theirs forever. He resorts to kissing him deep and long instead, buying himself the minutes he needs to get his head together enough to wriggle a hand between their bodies. 

He gropes blind, taking in the angel’s topography by touch, feeling the swells and shallows of him. Crowley looks down from the kiss to watch the tip of his first finger nudge the juncture of Aziraphale’s lips. He lets himself rub forward, tentative and gentle, pressing to the angel’s clit. He massages a loose circle around it, simple and amateurish, and Aziraphale gasps and throws his head back against the door. Crowley knows how to read a cue when he’s given one. 

He rolls Aziraphale’s clit with more confidence, watching the angel’s hands scramble for purchase on the door behind him. A little lower and his fingers come back slick. The soft, tender skin there yields to him, and it’s all too natural, too instinctive, too easy. He takes a superfluous deep breath. Then he slips inside his angel. 

Crowley feels the clench of him, trying to keep his corporation whole and together in this moment, the soul’s equivalent of mindful breathing. For all his centuries of fantasies, he hadn’t anticipated the ecstasy of Aziraphale’s body. He hadn’t fathomed the glory of his cunt. He crooks his fingers inside of Aziraphale, and his angel jumps with a little “Oh!” of genuine surprise, and then he melts against Crowley’s body, sagging into his arms. 

“This okay?” Crowley asks, voice rough, and maybe that was a question for earlier, better raised before he was two fingers deep in Aziraphale’s quaking body and already addicted to the pulsing squeeze that was urging him to stay there. Maybe he should have checked on that before the ravine of Aziraphale’s thighs was generously wet and the air was rich with the heady scent of him. Well, he thinks, as Aziraphale nods fast and flings his arms around Crowley’s neck, you can’t unring a bell. 

Crowley’s unoccupied arm comes up to brace himself against the wall, giving himself leverage to fuck in harder. Aziraphale’s hips roll with him, syncing up with an ease that comes from knowing someone for all of the world’s long hours. 

Crowley flings his sunglasses back over his shoulder. He wants to see Aziraphale in untinted color, and he doesn’t miss them one bit when Aziraphale’s gunmetal eyes flick up to meet his, dark and rich. He curls his fingers towards Aziraphale’s front, feeling for that bundle of sensation that he’s rubbed raw on himself while dreaming up scenes just like this one. 

Aziraphale leans heavily into Crowley and opens his legs wider. His mouth is an open, wet brand against Crowley’s neck. “Yeah,” Crowley hisses, and fucks his fingers up into the angel in earnest, putting on the speed he’s been restraining. Aziraphale’s wordless little gasps punctuate each thrust, and Crowley drinks it in, relishing his angel’s rapturous sensations. He lifts a heavy thigh and holds Aziraphale’s leg up close to his body so he can fuck in deeper, feeling the rippled walls of him, testing his own place within them. 

Crowley can feel his boxer-briefs growing wet where his own cunt rides up against the seam, soaked through to match his fingers soon enough. “Angel, you’ve no idea…” he groans nonsensically, but Aziraphale’s voice rises in a melodious note that sound like bells and the clashing of swords. It’s a cry of agreement, understanding, a confirmation so beautiful and holy sung out in the ancient divine language of their mutual heritage. Crowley’s ears ring. The tender rim of Aziraphale’s cunt is fluttering around his fingers. His hot walls clamp down, milking his pleasure from Crowley’s long digits. His angelic voice sinks into a soft melodious hum, and Crowley feels the aftershocks reverberating through the angel’s twitching sex. 

He’s made the angel come.

Crowley marvels as Aziraphale returns to himself, settling back into a more human voice to speak to him. 

“My darling…” he breathes, “I’ve never experienced a sensation like that… I’ve never dreamed…” His hand flutters to his heart, panting. Crowley reluctantly draws away, leaving the warm home of Aziraphale’s cunt. It spurs the angel to look down at himself, at his own dripping thighs. “Oh my…” Aziraphale’s cheeks flare, redder than they’d been for the sex itself, belatedly shy now that he’s come all over Crowley’s hand. He clears his throat awkwardly and snaps his clothing back into its place. 

Crowley fails to hide his pout. 

“Oh, come now, darling. Surely you didn’t plan on me standing here in nothing but my skin after you’ve treated me to such pleasures.”

“Did sort of plan on that, actually…” Crowley mumbles, but he leans his forehead to Aziraphale’s jacket-clad shoulder anyway, loosely holding his waist, breathing him in. ‘I love you,’ he thinks, fervent, and then remembers he has no reason not to say it anymore. “I love you,” he tells him, and feels Aziraphale’s hand pet down his back.

“And I love you, dear boy. Thank you. Thank you for this.” His voice is soft, reverent, and Crowley’s heart aches with how desperately he loves him. Aziraphale draws him into a kiss, hands framing his face, so sweet, and Crowley’s eyes burn with something that definitely isn’t soppy, overly-emotional tears. He’s lost in Aziraphale’s kiss, lost in the depths of his own unfathomed love, and he doesn’t notice where the angel’s hands are going until he’s rubbing firmly at Crowley’s cunt through his jeans. 

The ancient snake within Crowley sort of gives up on legs at that point. He groans, wrecked by this barely-there touch, and his buckling knees signal how fucked he is, how fast this is going to be over. Aziraphale catches him firm by the shoulder, steadies him well enough for Crowley to stagger backwards and flop back onto the couch. (Actually on it, not perched rebelliously on the arm or back. Aziraphale ruins him.) He waits for Aziraphale to sit properly beside him so he can collect him in his arms and hold him guilelessly, wishing for nothing more save for maybe one more kiss. But Aziraphale does not sit beside him. Instead, he very carefully goes to his knees between Crowley’s legs. 

“Angel,” he starts, thankful to his voice for cooperating. “You don’t have to, you don’t-“

“Be good and keep still,” Aziraphale orders, cutting him off, and wow, yeah, alright, if Aziraphale is going to take that kind of tone with him, then Crowley will stay as still as the statue in his flat. He’ll do whatever the fuck the angel wants. (He thinks time himself, as if that isn’t par for the course) Heart in his throat, he freezes obediently, and his reward is Aziraphale’s broad hands rubbing up and down his skinny thighs. “That’s right, my darling, very good,” the angel murmurs. Then he turns his attention to unbuttoning his shirtsleeves. Aziraphale rolls them up slowly, neat and deliberate folds of uniform width, revealing his bare forearms bit by bit. Crowley shudders with want, cunt clenching down over nothing. He’d had him starkers up against the door not minutes ago, and yet every strip of innocent skin is making him burn with desire. And here Crowley had imagined himself the master of temptation between the two of them.

Aziraphale stops just past his elbows, apparently satisfied with leaving it there. He gives a little satisfied hum and, without further fanfare, reaches for the snakehead of Crowley’s belt. 

“You’ll let me… return the favor, won’t you, my dear?” Aziraphale’s smile is coy and teasing, like he already knows the answer, the bastard. The worst bit is he does know. He can’t not know how badly Crowley wants to feel Aziraphale’s touch over his skin, not when the two of them are finally laid bare to one another. There’s no disguising what Crowley wants when their willful misunderstandings are cast aside to let them finally come together. 

Crowley sums all that up with a dumb, silent nod. His mouth is hanging open, stupid as anything. 

(He doesn’t have the brain power to recognize it as an unconscious instinct to scent the air. Aziraphale’s smell is still so potent in his nose, on his tongue.)

The belt buckle clinks open, the snake unhinges its jaw, and Crowley is suddenly squirming like mad, trying to writhe out of his jeans as fast as he can manage it. He’s wild in his desperation to get his bits out, twisting and snarling at the clingy fabric, and Aziraphale takes hold of the waistband, speaking to him in a melodious rhythm: “Look at you, you devilishly handsome thing. You are a temptation, given to me to test my will for all those centuries. You are my forbidden fruit. Oh, my darling, I would cast myself from paradise to have you.” 

Oh, thinks Crowley, that must be a heat of the moment thing. At least he hopes so. Aziraphale wouldn’t really do that, would he? He’s got no interest in Aziraphale tumbling down to his level. And he doesn’t need to: They can be together like this, their own side, no casting from paradise necessary. For a moment, he’s too distracted to keep up his shedding and stills on the couch. 

Aziraphale’s hands trace the slight shape of his waist. “Clever serpent, with your head always so full of questions. Let me ease your mind.” And with a last tug, Crowley’s jeans are around his ankles. 

Aziraphale settles back, adjusting himself for his own uninterrupted comfort. He takes a pillow from the couch to cushion his knees. Apparently he intends to be between Crowley’s thighs for some time. 

A satisfied little hum marks the start of things.

At first, Aziraphale just stares at him, and Crowley has to fight against himself to keep from hiding, legs quivering with the effort of staying open. He wonders what the angel sees in his fiery, wild cunt, red hair thick and tousled every which way. Aziraphale closes his eyes as he leans in, and Crowley realizes he is smelling him, sampling his scent the way he’d nose a freshly poured glass of wine. 

“What a delicate bouquet.” Aziraphale’s voice is sensual, and Crowley feels a shiver skitter up his spine. “How deletable. How blessed I am to be loved by such a treat of a creature.” 

Crowley finds himself slumping on the couch, sinking down until his ass was perpendicular to the floor. It left his cunt pressed towards his angel, needy and twitching and entirely unintentional. It just sort of happened as Aziraphale’s words sunk into his mind. Even the most put-together demons only had so much self-control. 

“May I touch you, my dear?” he asks, like Crowley doesn’t have his cunt all but shoved in Aziraphale’s face. Crowley grunts his agreement, digging his fingers into the couch. “Thank you,” the angel breathes, and brings his hands up. 

With his left, Aziraphale very gently spread Crowley’s lips, so tender and careful, and it still makes Crowley flinch, legs jumping reflexively at the sensitivity of it. He’s too worked up, too eager, he’s wanted for too long. Anything the angel does is going to ruin him. He throws his arm over his eyes, taking away one of the overwhelming sensations that were driving him mad. He can’t handle it all. 

That’s his internal excuse for his startled shout when Aziraphale brushes his clit. It’s a touch that’s barely there at first. And then it’s little strokes petting down his clit again and again, the leisurely way a human would pet a cat. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, making static and stars appear against the blackness. He’s never been so aware of his own emptiness, how desperate he is to be filled by the angel kneeling before him..

Aziraphale does the reverse, moving away from his clit to trace the shape of Crowley’s outer lips with both hands. It’s a slow, reverential, a rise and fall of thumbs against his lips that follows Crowley’s breathing. The massage thrums in his clit at the peak of Aziraphale’s strokes, but Crowley is more consumed by the gentleness it of, the tenderness, the fucking love. Aziraphale is touching him like a botanist taking pains not to bruise a flower petal. Like Crowley is to only ever be treated with the utmost care. “Making love,” they call it these days. Fuck, he understands. 

“How do we come to be here, next to each other in the night?” Aziraphale mutters to him. Crowley’s brain struggles to make sense of those words. “Where are the stars that show us to our love inevitable?” His fingers dip past the little hill of Crowley’s outer lips to his inner labia, and he starts his flowing mediation of touches there all over again. The sweet words have got to be from a book or a play or something, and it’s not that he doesn’t appreciate romance, but Crowley can’t really reflect on that right now. Not when Aziraphale is caressing him so tenderly. 

“Oh, my, you are marvelously wet, my darling.” Aziraphale’s fingers slide to play in Crowley’s slick. The other hand replaces its partner in stroking over Crowley’s clit, just as light and teasing. He wants to snark something about how obvious it is that he’d be wet, a snappy one-liner that’s collected and cool. Instead, Crowley whimpers. He can’t keep himself from whimpering. 

He feels the merciful glide of a single finger entering him, and he arches up so dramatically that he nearly slips himself free of it. That’s very much the opposite of his intention. He grinds back down, forcing Aziraphale deep and groaning with the minor relief it brings. 

“Look how well you take me.” Aziraphale’s voice is so warm, loving, and Crowley tightens over him without meaning to, swept up by being praised for taking one little finger when he’s fucked himself open on much larger, dreaming of exactly this. His angel is too soft on him. He shudders with a desperation that has him pushing back against Aziraphale’s hand, driving him deeper as much as he’s able to. 

Another finger slides inside of him, and Crowley howls under a layer of hissing drawn from at least three species of snake. Aziraphale’s fingers spread inside him, a delicious stretch that has him rolling his hips too quickly. 

“Oh, darling… I hadn’t imagined… You’re so sensitive, my dear, so beautiful… Crowley. Crowley.” And Crowley, called by his angel, takes his arm away from his eyes. Aziraphale is watching him with bright, huge eyes, pupils big and black, and he can see his arm moving as he gives Crowley a deep, slow thrust in. A third finger is added on the second grind, and Crowley is filling up with a desperation that’s edging up against the pleasure. He fucks himself on Aziraphale’s hand, hips pitching, hand coming down to steady Aziraphale’s wrist to give himself a stable angle. “There you are, my love, that’s it,” the angel whispers. “How wonderful you are.” And Aziraphale, brilliant thing, drags his open palm over Crowley’s clit before refining the touch to two keen fingers that rub fast, hot pleasure into him. It’s sudden and intense and it’s building in him like a growing flame. Crowley rides Aziraphale’s fingers, and luxuriates in his angel’s voice: “Serpent of Eden, you are more than the tempter. You are more than the temptation. You are Paradise itself.” 

And Crowley comes. 

The ecstasy of it explodes inside of his chest, a lightning bolt of pleasure shooting through his body. His thighs shake and he squeezes Aziraphale tight, keeping him there as he shakes. Aziraphale is murmuring praises to him, sweet words in the universe's first language, and it brings him over another edge, weaker quakes of a second orgasm ripping through him in pulsar bursts that Aziraphale must be able to feel. His angel stays with him through it, fingers nestled sweetly in his cunt until the last of the tremors has passed.

Aziraphale slips his fingers free with utmost care and rises to join Crowley on the couch. He gathers the demon to him, cradling him and kissing his sweating brow while Crowley pants and curls his fingers into Aziraphale’s shirt. 

“You are miraculous,” Aziraphale tells him. 

“Demon,” he croaks, and turns his face to pant into Aziraphale’s neck. He feels as limbless as a snake, loose and released from the burden of carrying an impossible desire for centuries. It’s the kind of bone-tired ache that one grows so accustomed to that they don’t even notice it’s there anymore until suddenly it’s gone, and they find themselves released.

“Even so,” says Aziraphale. He keeps Crowley cuddled against him, and Crowley keeps himself breathing, keeps his eyes free of tears. 

“I love you,” he whispers again, hushing the words into Aziraphale’s collarbone. 

“Did you say something, dearest?” Aziraphale asks, petting long, slow strokes of comfort down his back. 

“I said,” Crowley stops himself to swallow. “Any other star systems you’d like to lunch at, angel? We could make this a regular thing.”

At first, Aziraphale looks scandalized, like Crowley had told him to drop trou (again). But then the bastard in him catches on, and his cherub mouth bows up into a coy little smile. They’re grinning at each other like a pair of fools. 

“You know, my dear…” the angel says, taking Crowley’s hands, “I’ve heard wonderful things about Canopus.”

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Aziraphale recites to Crowley in the heat of the moment is taken from [Poem for My Love by June Jordan.](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49218/poem-for-my-love)


End file.
